


Heroes Don't Exist

by Jomel10



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Hate Sex, M/M, Non-Consensual, Protective Mycroft, Rape, Rape Recovery, Revenge, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:32:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jomel10/pseuds/Jomel10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock once told John that heroes didn't exist. He was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An early Sherlock story of mine from 2011. I started this between Worthless and Best Intentions, but left it on hiatus to concentrate on Best Intentions. I have just decided to finish it, so thought I'd post it here. It's set some time between seasons 1 and 2. I'll be updating with a new chapter a week. Enjoy.

John Watson was sat in his favourite chair, his head thrown back, and his eyes closed. He was exhausted. It had been yet another long day; he had even had to make two difficult house calls that evening before he had finally been able to make his way home, and put his feet up. 

At last, he could relax. Or, maybe that was what should have happened. That was after all how a normal person would enjoy an evening in.

Not him.

With his life the way it was, John should have known he had had no hope of actually being able to unwind. He had only been home five minutes before Sherlock had started on him. Sherlock Holmes, easily the cleverest man John had ever known, but equally the most irritating. He was John's friend, that was true, but sometimes, just sometimes, John would happily have murdered the man. And today had been one of those unfortunate days. Sherlock liked to make living with him as damn near impossible as he could every so often. On those days, it was like trying to share a flat with a crazy person, and John was fed up of walking on egg shells if Sherlock was in one of those moods. And that very night had definitely been one of those impossible moments. 

So many times over the last hour, John had asked himself why he put up with it. After the way he had just been treated, John knew, once and for all, that no special friendship could ever be worth this. Not even the friendship of Sherlock Holmes. 

That evening, knackered and sore after his trying day, John had arrived home, calling out a cheery hello to Sherlock, and had then thrown himself down in his chair. Sherlock had not replied. This was nothing new or out of the ordinary though, and John was not concerned or surprised, or even put on his guard. He was certain that Sherlock was there, holed up in his bedroom, finding it too much effort to bother to speak to him. His problem, as usual, was the fact that he had no work on. His friend had been bored out of his brain for the past few weeks, though thankfully this time the boredom didn't result in him shooting at Mrs Hudson's poor wall. He was, however, in a formidable temper. John usually chose, wisely, to keep out of Sherlock's way when the other man's mood became this dark, but he had refused to keep out of the way, like a naughty child, that night. John had worked so hard all day, whereas Sherlock had spent his time wasting away the hours at home, doing absolutely nothing, once again. All John wanted to do was rest, and to forget all about the stress of the day, and have a nice, pleasant evening at home with his friend.

That was what he had wanted.

Of course, Sherlock usually had other ideas.

Sherlock had strode into the room, glared angrily at John, clearly unhappy the man was even there. He had then instructed John to keep the noise down to a bare minimum and to keep out of Sherlock's way because he was in the middle of a very delicate procedure and needed complete concentration. He had then enquired as to why John was not “seeing the girlfriend,” and, not bothering to wait for a reply, he had gone on to state that John "may as well go and annoy her as he was wanted at home right now." Then, Sherlock had marched back to his room and had slammed the door behind him.

John had stared, eyes wide, directly in front of him.

He had also decided a few seconds later that he was not going to go anywhere, that this was _his_ flipping home too and he would do exactly as he wanted.

So he had moved to his chair, and had plonked himself down.

And there was where he found himself, sitting, his eyes closed and content, with the remote control to their television set in his hand. With a sigh, he pressed the button and switched the TV on. He was just starting to feel better as the soothing, or not so soothing, tones of Kat and Alfie invaded the peace and quiet and John settled himself down to watch the latest instalment of _Eastenders._

Mere moments later, Sherlock reappeared, his face flushed with anger. He didn't bother with any greeting or nicety, just simply crossed the room in two large strides, glared angrily at John and snapped; “Turn the bloody thing off!” When his taken aback flatmate didn't respond to this instruction at once, Sherlock let out an angry expletive and then stormed across the room, sweeping past John, to switch the television off himself. 

“You might not have heard me, John. I said I needed quiet!” Sherlock spat at the perplexed doctor. “I _happen_ to be working on a particularly challenging experiment, and I don't need you here getting in the way, being as damned noisy as possible! You are distracting me, very selfishly, from what I've been trying to do all day! Now, please be so kind as to respect my wishes! Alright?!”

John stared at Sherlock, unblinking. 

Then, very slowly and carefully, he responded.

“Hello, John. Had a good day? Yes, Sherlock, it's been okay, very busy. You? Oh, I've been doing nothing all day actually, and then I thought I'd wait for you to come home and start having a go at you and shouting at you because _I am a complete bastard!_ ” He screamed the last word with fury. He'd had enough.

Sherlock, who had been on his way back to his bedroom, stopped by the door, with one hand on the handle. He stayed perfectly still, looking over his shoulder, back at John, with one eyebrow raised in puzzlement.

Finally, he replied, quite calmly, “Are you upset about something, John?”

John almost laughed. The whole thing was preposterous. Too many times he had been insulted or provoked by his friend simply by existing and, nine times out of ten, he let those insults and attacks go over his head. 

Not today though. No sir. 

John covered his face with his hands, trying to calm himself down. “For God's sake, Sherlock!” He exclaimed; “Sometimes I think...” John had to break off, unable to put exactly what he was truly feeling at that moment into words. Eventually, he settled on asking Sherlock one tired, honest question, “Do you have any idea how upset I am right now? And, if you do, is it possible for you to care?” He paused. “Do you actually have it in you to care about anyone or anything else but yourself?”

Sherlock frowned, obviously unclear as to how he was supposed to respond.

John, for once, knew what he would be thinking.

_'We've covered this before, John. I have got a heart after all, remember? Even Moriarty noticed. And that's because of you. I care about you.'_

“I told you,” he answered, though not very sure of himself. “I'm _working._ It's complicated, and I need...”

“I've been working too, Sherlock!” John threw back, at the end of his tether. “I've had a really tough day, okay? I'm tired, I'm stressed and I just needed you to be normal, just this once.” 

Sherlock frowned. He did not appreciate that comment, not one bit. He crossed his arms, and pouted. “Oh, I see. And what do _normal_ people do?”

“Oh, I don't know, Sherlock.” John barked, in response. He knew continuing the conversation was utterly pointless. Neither of them were in the mood. “Cook dinner, maybe?”

Sherlock had looked towards the kitchen, before looking back at John, his face blank. “There's nothing in the freezer.”

“Then go shopping!” John gestured theatrically. “Get up, get dressed, and go down the shops! Just this once! It won't kill you!”

Sherlock gazed at John. He seemed to be thinking it over.

Finally, he replied.

“Shopping is boring.”

John shook his head. “Look, I know you're bored. I know you haven't had a case for a while-” 

“Twenty three days.”

“I know!” John exclaimed. “And I know it's driving you, and then in turn, me, mad. But something will turn up, Sherlock. It always does. Some horrific murder that Lestrade can't possibly solve without you. Just be patient!”

“Without _us._ ”

John stopped. He blinked once, wondering if he had heard him right. He looked quizzically at Sherlock.

Sherlock was actually looking away.

John frowned.

“Okay. Lets get a takeaway,” John offered. “Indian?”

“Boring.”

“Chinese?”

“Boring.”

“Pizza?”

_“Boring!”_

John wanted to hit him.

“Do you want to eat anything?”

“I don't eat.”

“Well, I do.”

“Go out then.”

John closed his eyes tightly. “Sherlock, I worked late tonight. Its eight-fifteen, and I only just got in. I'm fricking starving and Mrs Hudson is out at the theatre until after ten. So, what are we going to do for something to eat?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don't care.” 

“Fine.” John had had enough. What was the point? “That's just perfect. I'll go out by myself, shall I? Have a nice evening out all by myself. John Watson, the sad loner. Thanks for nothing.”

Sherlock watched him crossing the living room and throwing on his jacket. He just about managed to hold off the desire to smirk. 

_Peace and quiet, at last._

“Say hello to Sarah for me,” he called.

John, half way out the front door, looked back at him. “Who said anything about Sarah?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Don't you always go crying to her when you're annoyed with me?”

John glared at him, and obviously deciding that such a remark didn't even warrant an answer, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock let out an audible sigh. He walked to the window, and glanced out. He could hear voices from down below and he frowned, unable to see who John was talking to. Sherlock actually wondered whether he should take the opportunity to head downstairs, and apologise to John. He knew he had gone too far, and was very aware that he had been rude and unkind. And he had actually hurt John's feelings. Not something he was proud of.

He watched as John moved into his field of vision and then hurry away, crossing the street as quickly as possible. Sherlock moved away from the window, shaking his head slightly.

He would call John later. He'd sort this whole mess out with him then.

He heard the door being slammed downstairs and his ears pricked up. Interesting. Whoever John was talking to, they had been allowed entry by him.

By the time the newcomer was half way up the steps, Sherlock had already recognised the man's footsteps.

He turned, arms placed across his chest, and waited for his visitor to come bounding through the door. Sure enough, two seconds later, Detective Lestrade had rushed into the room.

“Sherlock,” he announced, as soon as he was through the door. “I need you to come with me.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“You do advertise your presence, you know, Lestrade. Like a herd of elephants. Maybe try lighter footsteps perhaps? Who knows, you might even catch some criminals once in a while, if they didn't hear you coming a mile away...”

Lestrade was breathing heavily, clearly trying to catch his breath, having just been running. He placed his hands on his hips, and fixed Sherlock with a glare.

“John said you were in one of your arsey moods, Sherlock.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Did he?”

“Yes he did, but I don't have time to play your childish games. We need to leave right now, so get your coat.”

Sherlock did not appreciate being ordered around at the best of times, especially by Lestrade.

“What’s the rush,” he enquired. “I'm assuming that there has been yet another murder that you couldn't possibly hope to solve without my expertise? Well, maybe I'm busy right now.”

“Sherlock, get in the car.”

Sherlock's stubbornness grew. “Even _if_ I accept the case, which right now is a big if,” he snapped; “I will follow you in a taxi alone. You know the drill.”

Lestrade shook his head. “Not this time.”

Sherlock glared frostily at Lestrade, trying to think of a witty retort. Deciding he couldn't be bothered, he instead crossed the room, taking a book from the shelf. “Fine then. Shut the door behind you.”

Lestrade glowered. “Damn it, Sherlock! I'm not joking! I'm not going to play along with you, not today. I need you out of that door. Now.” Sherlock didn't respond. Lestrade let out a despairing sigh and then added, after a moment's hesitation; “Please.”

That last word threw Sherlock. He looked up, fixing Lestrade with a curious gaze. “You're worried,” he announced. “Why?”

Lestrade had reached the end of his tether. He marched forward, took a hold of Sherlock's arm and began to pull the younger man towards the door. Sherlock instantly began to struggle, yelling his displeasure. He wrestled his arm away from Lestrade, pulling free, and then stood directly in front of the other man, his fists clenched.

“I _offer_ my help to you,” he hissed, through gritted teeth. “That is _my_ choice. You don't ever get to manhandle me anywhere. Am I making myself clear?”

Lestrade stared back. “I can't leave you on your own here, Sherlock.” Lestrade replied. “It's too dangerous.”

Sherlock blinked. “Dangerous? For me?” He asked, more quietly now. Despite his annoyance, he couldn't deny he was intrigued. “I'm in danger? What kind of danger, Lestrade?”

Lestrade looked away. Bloody Sherlock. He didn't want to have to get into the ins and outs of this before they had even left the flat. Couldn't he just do as he was told? Just this once?

Couldn't he see how worried Lestrade was?

Just once in his life, couldn't he care?

“Yes,” Lestrade replied, softly. “There's been a murder, one that will highly interest you, trust me. And there's a message,” he frowned, looking towards the door. “A message just for you, I think. That's why I don’t want to leave you here alone, now that you've managed to upset John. Again.” He paused. “You need to see this body, Sherlock. So, are you coming with me, or is throwing your latest tantrum more important to you?”

Sherlock hesitated. He was searching Lestrade's face, trying to figure this all out. He wasn't scared, why should he be? He hadn't even seen this message yet. No, he was interested. But there was something holding him back.

Lestrade read his mind. Which was a first for him.

“Do you want to find John?”

Sherlock turned and looked towards the window again.

“Yes,” he muttered. “I actually do.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Well, he's welcome to come along, as normal. We could pick him up on the way, if you know where he was heading?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I upset him,” Sherlock replied, more to himself. “I said some things...”

Lestrade shook his head wearily. “Well, you could try apologising...”

Sherlock turned his back on Lestrade, grabbing his coat which had been thrown onto the settee. “Best to keep him out of this,” he mumbled. “If it's me being targeted, I don't want him in danger again, like last time with Moriarty...”

Lestrade was unimpressed. This sounded like a cop out to him. He watched as Sherlock moved toward the door.

“But maybe John has a right to know, Sherlock?” Lestrade tried again. “He does live with you, after all?”

Sherlock rounded on Lestrade. “I'm sorry, Detective, I must have misunderstood. Were you not in a rush?”

The two men eye-balled each other. Lestrade knew he couldn't win.

He frowned, and then, nodded.

He had got what he wanted; he didn't want to push it, not now he actually had Sherlock's full attention. That was the best he could have expected. He wasn't stupid enough to hope for a miracle. Not where Sherlock was concerned..

“After you,” he offered, and then watched as Sherlock hurried out of the door. He tried to bury the feeling as foreboding swirling in his gut as he rushed out after him.

XXX

“Nice place.” Sherlock noted.

Lestrade gave him an unimpressed look. “Just get this done, Sherlock, so we can all get out of here.”

They were standing in a deserted warehouse, a very bleak building on a not very appealing part of the city. The place had not been used for decades and was certainly unsafe. Definitely the perfect place to commit a crime where you knew you wouldn't be disturbed. Both men were gazing down upon the body of what once was a woman and even Sherlock had been somewhat thrown by the state of the corpse. The woman had literally been cut up by the mad man, or men, who had killed her.

“Her name was Fiona Dawkins,” Lestrade stated. Sherlock looked up at once. He silently repeated the name.

“You remember?” Lestrade asked him.

Sherlock nodded. “Our first case together. How could I forget?” He glanced down again. “You have her wallet?”

“Yes,” Lestrade responded, “The killer obviously wanted us to know her name.”

“I assume that’s why she died,” Sherlock mused. “Too much of a coincidence.”

“I thought the same,” Lestrade agreed. He jerked his head. “And I have something else I need you to see, Sherlock.”

“He took her heart,” Sherlock noted, at once, ignoring his words.

Lestrade nodded. “Yes, and kidneys.”

“Same as before.” Sherlock blinked. “I don't suppose he left them lying about?”

“No,” Lestrade told him grimly. “Nothing has been touched.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Impressive. For you.”

“Lets get this over with, Sherlock,” Lestrade snapped. “I want to get what’s left of this poor woman back to the morgue. Then maybe we can actually get on with finding her murderer. This has to be a copy cat killing. And if he, or they, are copying the murders that I suspect they are, then we need to find these sickos before they find you.” He glared. “If its all the same to you.”

Sherlock was still staring down at the body.

“Someone did this just to gain my attention.”

“It seems so,” Lestrade said softly. “And?”

“They have it.” Came the quiet reply.

Lestrade tapped Sherlock on the shoulder and beckoned him to follow. Sherlock did so. The Inspector led the other man to a different room in the warehouse, and then gestured to the wall. Words were written there. Sherlock moved forward, seeing the message and noting at once that it was written in blood.

The message, scrawled in barely readable letters, was much more interesting.

“121B Bakers Street, London. See you soon, Sherlock. J O'D.”

Sherlock repeated the last few letters to himself.

“J O D.”

Sherlock gazed at the wall, noting the style of the writing and recalling where he had seen something similar before. In a letter he had once received himself.

“This has been written by an Irishman,” he muttered, more to himself. “And his message is only to clear. It's all about me. This woman was killed to get my attention. And he knew it would work. He's clever.” He shot a look at Lestrade. “Cleverer than you, at any rate. Obviously not cleverer than me. Because I caught him.”

“Okay, impress. How do you know that?”

Sherlock did not look up. “It's blindingly obvious.”

Lestrade gave an exasperated sigh and a small shake of his head. “No, not this time. I need more than that right now, Sherlock. I need answers.”

Sherlock gave him a sideways glance. “It's not that complicated, Lestrade. Look at the name of the victim, look at the style of writing on the wall. The girl wasn't killed here, there's no blood on the ground, despite being hacked to pieces, so she was killed somewhere else and brought here because this place is a similar warehouse to last time. She was chosen because of her name. I bet they searched high and low for a Fiona Dawkins, and murdered her brutally just because she happened to have the same name as the victim from our first case together. This is not a copy cat killing. Why would it be? This wasn't in the papers, it was kept out of the papers by the girl's rich father so that leads me to deduce that the same gang are involved once again.” He paused for breath, and possibly to check that he had Lestrade's undivided attention. Realising he did, he continued on. “This killer could have come after me, or someone close to me, straight away. They didn't, they chose to play a game. Every single clue in this case points to the killers being exactly the same men as before.” He fixed Lestrade with a knowing look. “The O'Donnell brothers.”

Lestrade paled. That would not be good news. It was also, he was very relieved to remember, impossible.

“They are both still locked up.”

Sherlock frowned. “No. Out on good behaviour. Joseph anyway, I don't know about his brother. Joseph is the threat anyway.” He narrowed his eyes. “He always was the clever one.”

Lestrade shook his head. “How can they let a man like that out?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It's your system. You tell me.” He pulled out his phone. “You read the message. They're coming after me. And anyone unlucky enough to live with me. I need to contact John and Mrs Hudson now. Are we done here?

Lestrade nodded. With a flustered grimace, he turned away, hurrying quickly back into larger room, calling out instructions to his men. “Get the body moved,” he snapped. “And get forensics on this site pronto.”

“We would have got started ages ago,” Anderson piped up, “If we'd been allowed to.”

Sherlock threw Anderson a condescending look. “Don't worry Anderson,” he retorted. “I've got what I've needed. Feel free to blunder in and discover absolutely nothing at all.”

Anderson took a step forward. “it's you this gang are after then? I wonder why? How could you possibly have insulted anyone enough to want to hurt you? I really can't think.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Well, at least you can admit it. There's hope for you after all. Now get out of may way, Anderson, since I'm certain you have nothing intelligent to add.”

And he pushed past Anderson, leaving the police officer fuming in his wake.

“I have to find John.”

Lestrade called after him. “Fine. Do you want me to come with you?”

“No. Don't you listen? Like I said, they have our address. We need to stay away from Bakers Street.” He fixed Lestrade with a knowing look. “You know what these men are capable of.”

Lestrade did. That was why he insides would not stop churning.

“Okay, Sherlock. You find John and Mrs Hudson and then I'll put you under police protection until we know what the deal is.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The deal is revenge, Lestrade. Cold, calculated, simple revenge. On me.”

The detective was walking quickly, away from Lestrade, his phone pressed to his ear.

“Remember what I said,” he called back. “Don't come looking for us. Wait for me to call you.”

He listened as John's phone rang once, twice, three times.

There was no answer.

Damn it.

Sherlock's panic continued to increase as he broke into a run.

XXX

Sherlock was still feeling very uneasy as he stood outside his own front door, having found a taxi without to much bother and demanding that the driver got him to his destination as quickly as possible. He had actually requested for the man to “step on it” twice. He had attempted to call John four times in the taxi ride back to Baker Street but never got an answer. John's phone just rang and rang. It wasn't normal. John knew Sherlock preferred to text, and when the other man became aware that he had four missed calls, surely he would have sensed there was trouble? John could actually be quite intelligent, all things considered,. And he had learnt a lot from Sherlock, well, had begun to any way. To ignore all those signs, even after he and Sherlock had fallen out earlier in the day, was simply out of character for John. And that was what worried Sherlock.

He unlocked the front door and entered, calling out to John as soon as the door slammed shut behind him. There was no reply. Still that feeling of unease would not leave him. Something was not right.

Maybe he is still out with Sarah. Maybe he's staying there tonight. It was not like Sherlock to panic but this whole night had got to him. All the bad memories from the past had come flooding back, and he was only to aware what dangerous men Joseph and Mickey O'Donnell were. And Sherlock had got them locked away for years. It made perfect sense that they would come looking for revenge, and what better way to get to Sherlock than through John.

It seems to be the obvious route taken now. First Moriarty, now the O'Donnell twins. Is there no originality left in the criminal mind? Boring.

“John!” Sherlock called. “Are you here?”

He ran up the stairs two and a time, and he flung open the living room door, adrenalin pumping. The sight that greeted him though stopped him in his tracks. He stared with wide, panicked eyes at John, who was standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by three men, who were all facing Sherlock. The detective quickly noted that John's hands were tied, wait, no, cuffed, behind his back, and he was gagged. He also had a nasty bruise beginning to form on his cheek. And he was staring at Sherlock with total helplessness and despair.

Sherlock's gaze fell on the tall man standing beside John, an arm wrapped around the smaller man's shoulders, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes in recognition. Joseph O'Donnell was grinning at Sherlock, a cigarette clamped between his teeth, and his grip tightening on John's neck. The other men were not smiling, they were simply watching. As Sherlock quickly looked from face to face, hoping for a glimmer of anything he could use if he got the opportunity, but they were giving nothing away. There was a blank canvas. He also saw no trace of any mercy in any of their cold, staring eyes.

When Sherlock's eyes once more came to rest on John's, he could see that they had both arrived at exactly the same conclusion.

They were in deep trouble.

O' Donnell stepped forward, his small, piggy eyes locked on Sherlock's, shining with triumph. The man grinned widely at Sherlock, showing teeth.

Sherlock glared back, trying to appear a lot more confident than he actually felt. The man's smile only increased as he looked the Detective up and down.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he growled. John was struck by just how rich the man's Irish accent was. There was almost a mischievous edge to his tone, something almost even gentle, but John was not fooled. This man was not playing a game, and now, as John watched the other man staring intently at his best friend, he couldn't help but shiver.

Sherlock would think of something. Sherlock always thought of something. 

O'Donnell, chuckling as he released his hold on John to walk directly up to the icy-faced Sherlock, offered the other man his hand to shake. Sherlock did not respond.

The Irish man chuckled, and withdrew his hand.

“Good to see you again,” he continued, “It's been a long time.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock's gaze flickered to meet the grim look of his best friend. John could only stare back at him desperately. He pulled at his bonds, his skin burning from the ropes that held him, but it was futile. John shook his head helplessly. He tried to send a wordless message to the other man, wanting Sherlock to know that he was okay, and urging him to just hand over whatever it was that these men wanted.

John already knew though, it would never be that simple.

The thugs had hardly spoken to John, just one word instructions and grunts, since they had forced their way into his home. Thankfully, Mrs Hudson had left some time earlier. John didn't want to imagine how they would have treated the kindly old lady. They had overpowered him easily, given him quite a beating, and had then dragged him to his chair and tied him to it. John had attempted to find out what they had wanted and why they were hurting him, but they had simply laughed at him and told him to keep quiet. Then, O'Donnell had introduced himself and told John he had come to see Sherlock. John had asked him why and O'Donnell had simply grinned.

And then he'd had John gagged by his men, and the conversation had promptly ended.

Then they had all sat quietly, patiently waiting for Sherlock.

John had no idea what was happening, or why, but he knew that these men meant business.

All he could do was watch as events unfolded. He had never felt so useless in his life.

Sherlock, his eyes boring into O'Donnell's, stepped forward. 

“What do you want?” he asked, not bothering with pleasantries.

O'Donnell was obviously amused. “How have you been, Sherlock?” he said, ignoring the other man's question. “How have the last few years been for you?”

Sherlock blinked. “Better than they've been for you, I'm sure,” he replied, dryly. “Who are your two friends?”

Joseph waved the query away. “Don't worry about them. They are just being paid to watch you suffer,” he smirked. “They have being loaned to me, just for today. By someone who hates you as much as I do, so it happens.” He tightened his hold on John's shoulder. “Well, nearly as much.”

Sherlock nodded. “O'Donnell, all of these games were unnecessary. It’s me you want, naturally. This has nothing to do with my acquaintance, who you have most rudely decided to tie up. You may as well let him go.”

Both men's attention was drawn to John as the bound man let out an indignant squeak. Sherlock knew what John's problem was, knew he would have no intention of leaving Sherlock alone at the mercy of these thugs. He was struggling but became still when Sherlock threw him a warning look.

The meaning was clear: _You can't help me John. You need to stay quiet, I don't want them to hurt you._

John grew still, helplessness in the gaze he returned to Sherlock.

Joseph, though, seemed to have other ideas too. 

“I don't think so,” he retorted. “I want you both to stay and join in my party.”

“Why?”

The Irishman seemed to ponder over this question. He released his hold on John and then slowly moved away from him, stepping closer to Sherlock.

“You don't want to waste time, Holmes?” He reasoned. “Fine, lets get to it then. You remember my brother, I'm sure?”

“Of course. Your twin. Your brainless little shadow. I was wondering why he wasn't skulking in the corner-”

Sherlock didn't get to finish his sentence. Suddenly, with a shout of rage, Joseph was on him, shoving him backwards, and pinning him against the wall by his throat. Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. He hadn't expected such a show of anger from O'Donnell, this attack was not in keeping with the man's previously calm and calculated behaviour. This worried Sherlock further. O'Donnell had always kept to the same pattern. The fact that he had changed made him an even more dangerous adversary. His actions could no longer be anticipated. 

O'Donnell tightened his hold and Sherlock gasped for air. His tormenter leaned right into his face. “Watch what you say about my brother,” Joseph snarled. “Do you understand me?”

Sherlock cringed, struggling slightly.

“I asked you a question,” Joseph spat.

Sherlock knew he had no choice, other than being throttled and leaving John alone with this animal. He nodded, his hands pulling at O'Donnell's helplessly. 

Joseph was satisfied. “Good,” he drawled, and then released Sherlock, who leaned against the wall behind him for support, wheezing, trying to catch his breath. 

His gaze met John's briefly and the other man's eyes were now even more concerned. Sherlock knew John would have been tugging at his restraints, yelling behind his gag but he also knew John was in no position to aid him.

Their situation was growing more desperate with every passing second. Sherlock knew Joseph was more unstable than before, and that he wanted blood.

The Detective decided it would be best to keep the conversation going, try to buy them some time and then maybe help would come. Lestrade knew the dangers facing Sherlock, had warned him to be careful, wouldn't he check up on him? Or at least send round some uniforms to do the same? Even seeing Anderson would be acceptable in that moment. Or perhaps Mycroft was listening, and would send assistance.

Sherlock frowned. Mycroft was keeping a very close eye on his younger brother, following him everywhere. Now Sherlock needed him, so where the hell was he?

He cleared his throat as he reverted his gaze to O'Donnell, who had moved to the window and was staring out at the street below. “Where is he?” Sherlock said, softly. “Where is your brother?”

Joseph's large blue eyes bore into Sherlock's. “Why? Concerned for his whereabouts suddenly, are you?”

“You two were practically joined at the hip,” he continued. “I can only assume that since he's not here with you, he must be-”.

“He's dead,” Joseph hissed abruptly, interrupting him, and then slamming his fist into the wall. "Happy now?"

Sherlock broke off, feeling a spark of hope.

_That explains O'Donnell's unexpected behaviour. He's upset, grieving, irrational and not thinking clearly. This makes him more dangerous, but also more likely to slip up any moment. And that's when I can make my move._

“They made me watch, you know.” 

Joseph's words were so soft, so pitiful, that Sherlock had to strain to hear him. The Irishman had balled his hands into fists, despairing at the images he could obviously see in his mind as he relived the events.

“The Aryan brotherhood took a liking to him as soon as we got in there. I protected him as much as I could but they jumped us one day. Guards helped them out.” His eyes blazed. “Those fucks handed him over to them as if he were a piece of fucking meat. So, they held him down and laughed as they fucked him again and again.”

Joseph, his hands shaking, lit a cigarette. Sherlock who had been listening intently, suddenly and inexplicably thought about how John disliked him smoking inside. He decided it was best not to mention it to Joseph though.

The Irish man was lost in his horrific memories. He continued. “Jimmy was pleading with me to stop them but I couldn't. I couldn't get to him, couldn't do a fucking thing. They had hold of me, kept me back as they fucked him in the arse, and in the mouth-”

He stopped, took a long drag on his cigarette, and then carried on staring out of the window.

“My brother couldn't cope with the shame.” His eyes were flaming as he finally looked again toward Sherlock. “We're proud men, Sherlock. From a big, proud, Irish family. To be used like that, in front of his big brother, it was too fucking much. He was finished. Didn't want to fight any more. So, he got himself a knife from one of the other Irish prisoners, and, one morning, slit his own throat.” 

Sherlock didn't react. He just kept watching O'Donnell closely.

“Or, that's what they told me happened, anyway. I never got to see the body. Who knows what really went on? And, apparently, who gives a shit, right? He was nothing, _right?_ ” His voice faltered. “Either way, our Jimmy's free now. His suffering is done. And, ever since _that_ day, when the Aryan scum forced me to watch as they brutalised my own brother, do you know what I've thought about, Mister Holmes?”

Sherlock couldn't reply, though he had a good idea. The smile Joseph was giving him now could only be described as twisted.

His stomach churned.

Joseph waited for a reply, but when none was forthcoming, he grabbed hold of Sherlock again and pulled him closer, to hiss in his ear: “All I've thought about is _you_ and exactly what I'd do to you if I ever got the chance.” He smirked. “Looks like this is my lucky day."

He struck Sherlock across the face then, and chuckled as Sherlock was sent tumbling to the floor from the unexpected force of the blow. He dragged Sherlock up, and pinned him against the wall once more. Sherlock struggled against his grip but it was useless; Joseph held him tightly.

“Tell me, Sherlock,” his aggressor hissed, spraying Sherlock with spittle. “Can you _imagine_ what it's like to watch the one person you care about most in the whole world suffering in the worst possible way?” He paused before adding; “And not being able to do one single thing about it?

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He glanced over at John, who was staring back at him, his eyes wide.

“Don't-” he began, but O'Donnell, smirking, cut him off.

“I didn't think you cared about anyone, Holmes.” Joseph grinned. “Turns out I was wrong.”

“He's my room mate.”

“He's your friend. You care deeply for him.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You're mistaken.”

He couldn't help but steal a glance towards John then. There was additional pain in those soulful eyes now, and Sherlock knew his words had cut into John like a knife. Sherlock had hurt John, that was unpreventable, but he could only pray that John understood why he had to say such cruel things. He wanted nothing more than to keep John safe and convincing Joseph that John was “nothing special” to him was the only way he could see that happening.

Unfortunately, Joseph was not fooled.

“I don't think so,” he purred. “Your concern for him has already given you away, boyo. And besides, I had a tip about you two.”

Sherlock blinked. “Who from?”

Joseph tutted. “Now, now! I can't reveal my sources, can I!” He seemed exhilarated now. “But lets say I know as much about John Watson as I do about you!”

Sherlock grimaced. It didn't take his genius to work out who had aided O'Donnell in his scheme. Moriarty. And he was probably finding all of this very funny right now, where ever he was. 

_If they got out of this, he would hunt down and make Jim pay for putting John in such danger._

Joseph, meanwhile, had released his hold on Sherlock and had turned towards John and the two men standing either side of him, and nodded. The men quickly untied John and threw him harshly to the floor. John lay there, rubbing at his wrists, staring up at Sherlock. Sherlock made to go to John, but the two men were faster, each grabbing one of Sherlock's arms and pulling him back.

Joseph watched all of this with an amused smile on his face.

“Oh yeah,” he taunted. “You don't give a shit about him _at all_ , do you, Sherlock?”

He stopped right beside John, looking down at him with a predatory grin.

“Wait!” Sherlock hissed, fighting tooth and nail against the men holding him. “O'Donnell, listen to me!”

Joseph ignored him. Still smiling down at John, he reached for his zipper.

“Show time.” He sneered, as he grabbed the gag, and tore it from John's mouth. He beamed as he threw it to one side and then carefully stroked John's face. “Now, suck me.”

John, on his knees, glared up at Joseph. His eyes shot to Sherlock for one second. “Okay, you know I'm not going to do this; ” The doctor said, as calmly as he could muster. “So, lets all just calm down, yeah?

Joseph shook his head incredulously. “Doctor Watson,” he began. “Let me tell you what you are _going_ to do, okay? You are _going_ to suck me, and you are _going_ to swallow what I give you to swallow. And Sherlock is _going_ to watch. If you don't, you'll die very slowly and painfully. Is that clear enough?”

John closed his eyes tightly.

_This is not happening._

_God, help me._

“Now,” Joseph smirked. “I'm not a patient man. I think I'd like to see you take out my dick, doctor. _Tend_ to me, will you please?”

The two men holding Sherlock laughed at that.

John burned with shame. What choice did he have? He reached out for Joseph's zip, his hands trembling.

Sherlock, with a shout of: _“No!”_ , forced his way forward, his captors trying, and failing, to hold him back. Sherlock was unrelenting, however. He managed to wrestle one of his arms free, sprang forward and gripped O'Donnell by his wrist. 

“Humiliate me instead!”

Joseph paused, tilting his head to one side as he regarding Sherlock with amusement. 

"What?"

“NO!” John was shaking his head desperately, his eyes wide with horror. “Sherlock, don't you dare-”

“Hush,” O’Donnell snapped to John wearily, cutting him off. “Let the man speak, doctor. This just got interesting.” The Irishman's face broke into a cruel smile as he turned slowly and looked, curiously, towards Sherlock. “What was that you were saying, eh?”

“Leave him alone,” Sherlock snapped, almost falling over his words in his effort to get his message across. “I'm the one you want to hurt. I'm to blame for Jimmy's death, right? So, if you have avenge him by humiliating someone, make it me.”

“Sherlock, don't!” John yelled.

Joseph struck John so hard across the face that he knocked him to the ground. He sneered down at him. “I _told_ you to shut the fuck up!” 

He once again reverted his triumphant gaze to Sherlock.

“You'll do whatever I want you to do? Take whatever I dish out?”

Sherlock glanced at John for a second before once again meeting the cruel man's gaze.

“If you promise that you and your hired grunts here won't harm John, then yes, I won't fight you.”

John had heard enough. He tried to get to Sherlock; if could just touch him, maybe he could convince him not to do this. Not for him. _Not this._

"Sherlock, no. Don't do this.” Failing to reach Sherlock, he then made a grab for Joseph, who sneered back at him. “Don't hurt him, you sick bastard!"

"Tie him up again!” Joseph spat. “And keep him quiet!”

Seconds later, John once again found himself tied to his chair, unable to move a muscle, a man once more placed on either side of him, and the same dirty cloth again forced unceremoniously into his mouth. He continued to shake his head at Sherlock, tears beginning to trickle down his face. He knew Sherlock would see this as a weakness and he wished he could stop, but his heart was breaking. As far as he was concerned, being forced to watch his best friend being brutally assaulted by a vicious criminal was a far worse fate for him than if he had to endure the same himself. 

Sherlock, meanwhile, wouldn't look at his friend again. He was clearly scared by what he was facing, but managed to hold himself together well. He stared coldly back at his tormentor, who was now standing only a hair’s-length away from him. Joseph chuckled. Sherlock didn't flinch.

The Irishman smiled. He was impressed.

With a gasp. Sherlock suddenly found himself sprawling on the carpet, Joseph having given him a hard shove. His tormentor stood over him triumphantly, and then turned and pointed a finger firmly at John.

"Make sure he watches this," he barked. “If he looks away, cut his throat.”

Sherlock looked up sharply at that. “You promised-” but his words were stopped abruptly when Joseph kicked him viciously in the ribs.

“Shut the fuck up,” he spat. “You talk when I say so.” Stepping closer, Joseph grinned toothily at Sherlock. The taller man blanched as he saw the man he had just decided that he hated above all others standing over him, his cock hanging out of the open fly of his trousers.

"I think you know what to do," he told the sickened detective.

Sherlock turned his head to the side, breathing heavily through his nose. He still refused to look at John. He knew he would only see pity in those eyes and he couldn't bear that. He had expected this. He knew what he had let himself in for. But now that the reality of what was going to happen to him hit him like a ton of bricks, all of Sherlock's bravado left him and he closed his eyes tightly, wishing that somehow, someone, would make this all go away.

He wanted to be safe.

_Mycroft, where are you? Help me._

Noticing Sherlock's fear and shame, Joseph chuckled as he ruffled his victim's hair. "You said _anything,_ Sherlock. Don't you go back on your word now. I despise liars."

There was an expectant silence in the room. The only sound was John's mumbled, desperate whimpers. He couldn't quite believe what he was about to see his friend reduced to. For _him._ To save _him._ Guilt and anger consumed him as he again struggled against his bonds. Just how were he and Sherlock ever supposed to get past this?

Sherlock swallowed heavily, the heat rising in his cheeks. His tongue flickered out to wet his dry, swollen lips as his eyes trailed down the other man's body to his cock.

"I can't,” he began, but Joseph didn't want to hear it.

"You can and you will. I watched five men using Jimmy this way. Because of you, Holmes." His eyes were flaming. "Or, if you'd prefer, should I ask John to take your place after all?"

"NO!"

"Then do it!" he snarled.

Sherlock still didn't move. His limbs were failing him. Joseph had waited long enough. He reached out and cupped the back of Sherlock's head, jerking him forward. Sherlock grimaced as his lips touched the head of Joseph's cock, tongue flickering out hesitantly to taste it. Screwing his face up, he took the tip of it into his mouth, sucking gently. "Oh, yes. That's good," Joseph shuddered at the feeling, yanking at Sherlock's hair and thrusting his hips, feeling wetness surround his hardness. He then took control of the situation once more, pushing hard into Sherlock's mouth, his cock brushing the back of his victim's throat.

Sherlock gagged, unable to prevent the tears from cascading down his face as he struggled to breathe. He tried to pull back, but the grip on his head was too strong for him to twist away from. He gave up any hope of escape and tried to relax as the other man brutally fucked his mouth. His insides knotted as the laughter, jeers, and cheers of the other two men rang in his ears.

Suddenly, Joseph released him, shoving Sherlock away. The detective lay at his tormentor's feet, gasping for breath. One thought ran through his mind: _He didn't orgasm, why did he stop? What's next?_ He wanted to vomit but tried desperately to prevent himself, not knowing how the insane Irishman would react to such an insult. Sherlock was only too aware that John was still in very real danger and he would keep him safe. Even if it killed him.

This was his fault. His arrogance brought this upon them.

He would not let John pay for _his_ inflated ego.

Sherlock blinked, trying to focus on the one person in the room that mattered. John had turned as white as a sheet, his eyes red and sore, and judging by the size of the bruise beginning to appear on his cheek, he had been struck more than once. Despite everything that had just been done to him, it was the sight of his best friend, still being harmed because of him, that made cold fury burn deep inside of Sherlock. He glared up at Joseph, rage flowing through him in waves.

With a cold smile, O'Donnell knelt down beside his stricken victim.

"Look at the state of you now, boy," Joseph hissed in Sherlock's ear. "Pathetic."

Sherlock eyed him hatefully. 

Joseph grabbed a handful of Sherlock's hair and forced him to look up, straight at the horrified John.

“Can't handle cock, can he, John?”

John closed his eyes, and received another punch in the mouth for his trouble.

Sherlock, incensed by watching John's rough treatment, glared daggers at Joseph.

“Why?” he inquired, almost conversationally. “How did Jimmy take it, then? Did he _enjoy_ it?”

Joseph froze.

John gaped at Sherlock. 

_Shit, Sherlock, don't wind him up._

“What did you say?” Joseph said quietly.

Sherlock pursed his lips together. 

“Did he love it? Did he ask for more?” He paused thoughtfully. “Or rather, did he _beg_ for more?”

There was not a sound to be heard now. The two hired thugs were both staring at their leader, waiting for his reaction. They were glancing at Sherlock in stunned amazement, clearly believing that the man had a death wish.

Maybe he did. 

As long as they didn't hurt John any more.

“You dare to say a fucking thing about my brother?” Joseph muttered. “You think you can fucking talk about my brother-”.

“Your brother died because you didn't protect him, O'Donnell,” Sherlock threw back. He wanted to sound almost bored and he knew that this attitude would only agitate his foe further, and that was what he needed to happen.

He needed Joseph to lose control, needed him to make a mistake.

And, that wasn't the only reason.

It was not in Sherlock's nature to accept this kind of treatment without fighting back. Especially from some uneducated common bastard who needed to be put back into his place.

“You’re blaming me because you know he went to that hell hole because of you. Because he wanted to be like you. His smarter, cooler, twin brother. Don't blame _me_ for something you made happen.”

Joseph seemed lost for words. Not even he could believe Sherlock's audacity.

Sherlock exchanged glances with John. He could read from that look that John understood his plan. He knew that Sherlock was trying to catch his enemy off guard.

But he also knew that Sherlock was playing a very dangerous game. And Sherlock could see that John did not approve in the slightest.

Joseph, with a snarl, struck Sherlock on his jaw, ending the moment's understanding between the two friends. Sherlock was sent sprawling from the force of the blow. He laid there, trying to clear his head. He could hear John in the distance, knew his friend was furious and he wondered why. 

_What was happening?_

He soon realised.

“You wanna know what he went through?” Joseph snarled. “You wanna feel what they did to him? Why don't I show you?”

Holding Sherlock down with one hand, Joseph reached for the detective's belt. At that moment, Sherlock lost all resemblance of calm and he increased his struggles, desperately trying to get away. Joseph laughed, euphoric, and then began to rain down blow after blow on the other man's back until Sherlock finally grew still, his breathing laboured. Already weakened, having been through so much that evening already, and now in so much pain, Sherlock could hardly move.

Joseph smiled contently. This was all about control for him.

_For you, Jimmy._

He unbuckled the now unmoving Sherlock's belt and then pulled the other man's trousers and boxers down to his ankles in one fluid movement.

Seeing that, John let out a desperate shout, gaining another smack on the back of his head for his troubles. Joseph, his face flushed with anticipation, smirked.

“Get ready, Doctor,” he gasped. “You're gonna love this.”

He then forced Sherlock into a kneeling position.

"Don't do this," the detective suddenly whispered. 

"Shut your mouth," Joseph snapped back, but he looked delighted. Now, he had the great Sherlock Holmes at his mercy. He quickly forced a finger into Sherlock's tight hole, gaining a strangled cry. Joseph, chuckling evilly, loving every second, hurriedly inserted a second finger. Tears sprung into Sherlock's eyes as he desperately tried to block out what was happening.

His eyes finally met John's. They gazed at each other.

Sherlock could see the despair his friend was feeling, and it did give him some strength. He was not alone in this. John was there, and John cared. 

It did help.

Not much, but some. 

Joseph quickly pulled his fingers out of Sherlock, giving his victim some relief. That didn't last long though as O'Donnell then lined his fully erect penis up against Sherlock’s hole. With one cruel smile at the devastated doctor, he thrusted into Sherlock, tearing the detective due to the lack of lubrication. Sherlock couldn't stop himself from screaming. He had never felt such agony in his life. And suddenly, all his previous thoughts about John being there were forgotten. Knowing that John was sitting there, watching his humiliation, watched this disgusting man sticking his prick inside of him, only added to his torment ten fold.

Sherlock knew that, with each thrust, O'Donnell was contaminating every part of him.

 _He'd never come back from this._

Joseph was panting. Holmes was so tight, perhaps he was even a virgin. O'Donnell chuckled at the thought. 

The sensations he was experiencing were unbelievable. 

"You're so fucking good, Sherlock," O'Donnell taunted. “Best lay I've ever had.”

Still holding Sherlock down, Joseph reached under, and began to fondle his enemy's cock, taking great pleasure from the moans this earned him. The fact that Sherlock just laid there now, like a broken toy, gave O'Donnell even more pleasure. He could do whatever he wanted. Sherlock was _his_. He leaned in closer.

“Is it this good with your doctor, Sherlock?”

Sherlock cringed. He head John shouting at that, his cries still being smothered by the makeshift gag and he wished he could tell John to stop, to be quiet. He didn't want his friend to be hurt any more. Not on account of him. Why couldn't John realise that Sherlock was going through this for him? What good would it do if they killed John anyway? Then it would all have been for nothing.

Joseph continued to pound into his victim mercilessly. Sherlock, in complete agony, had his eyes tightly shut. He had never felt humiliation like this, made to lay there like a whore as a vile lowlife of a man used his body for his own enjoyment.

It hurt. It hurt so much.

_Please, stop this. I'm sorry. Please._

At last, he felt Joseph speeding up, and knew he was close. He balled his hands into fists and prepared himself. It was nearly over. He knew he was seriously hurt, he could feel his own blood running down his thighs.

Joseph thrusted in as far as he could, and then shouted out loudly in triumph, cuming deep inside Sherlock. He then collapsed on top of his victim, panting heavily. After a moment's pause, he pulled ruthlessly out of the broken body beneath him, gaining yet another whimper from his victim.

"Thank you," he slurred into Sherlock's ear, trying to humiliate the wretched man further. “That was great.”

Sherlock groaned, but didn't move.

He could feel the darkness surrounding to him, and he headed into it gratefully. Anything to stop the agony, the humiliation and the burning shame.

There was a nagging voice still whispering to him, deep inside: _Don't leave John alone with them,_ but he just couldn't listen to that voice any more, he had to ignore it now.

He felt himself fading.

Everything was quieter now, it was so dark.

Then, he knew no more.

John was screaming behind his gag as he watched his best friend pass out. He was seething. He had never felt such intense rage, such pure hatred for another person in his life. Not even for Moriarty. This was a whole new level. He wanted to kill Joseph. He wanted to wrap his hands around that throat and squeeze until he watched the light fade from his eyes. 

He would make him pay. He would make him suffer. 

It was a few more seconds before John realised that Joseph was smirking right at _him_.

He nodded to the man standing beside John, who then tore his gag at of his mouth. John took in a couple of much needed deep breaths before his murderous gaze once again fixed on O'Donnell.

Joseph beamed. 

“So, Doctor, how was that for you?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to keep you waiting, guys! The delay was actually kind of Benedict Cumberbatch's fault, as I was away at the weekend meeting him at the Elementary convention :) Anyway... enjoy this! I'm still working on the next chapter so it probably won't be posted for another week :)

Joseph grinned. He stood up straight, leering over the trembling form of Sherlock. With a contented sigh, he turned away slowly, making eye contact with John as he pulled up his jeans and re-buckled his belt. He chuckled, causing John to cringe.

_'He just brutally raped another man and he laughs? This man is beyond insane.'_

Joseph looked flushed yet exhilarated, excited by not only his victory, but also delighting in what he had reduced his enemy to. Sherlock hardly moved. He just lay on the ground beneath Joseph, trembling and whimpering softly, utterly humiliated.

O’Donnell leaned back against Sherlock's desk. He had the air of a man without a care in the world. His eyes shone as he smirked at his friends. 

“So boys, who wants to have a go at him next?”

The laughter that filled the room was silenced by one desperate cry.

“NO!”

Every pair of eyes, excepting Sherlock, who still didn't move, turned to regard the despairing John Watson, who now had silent tears cascading down his face. He saw the enjoyment at his agony on each of their expressions so he averted his gaze back to the ground while attempting to compose himself. He had to stay calm. For Sherlock's sake. He could _not_ lose it now. He didn't doubt that this bastard would kill both of them without a moment's hesitation. Finally, he took a deep breath, looked up and once more looked towards Joseph.

“Please,” he said, so quietly. He had to try, though he harboured little hope that the evil man would listen. Joseph would continue to do whatever he pleased to Sherlock. 

John gritted his teeth. He would not allow Sherlock to suffer a moment longer.

“Enough,” he pleaded, desperately trying to keep his tone steady. “For pity's sake.”

Joseph threw back his head and laughed loudly. “Pity?” he spat. He shook his head at John, clearly revelling in the man's misery. “Do I look like I'm in a merciful mood to you, Doctor?”

“No." John muttered. "You look insane.” He couldn't contain his anger. “You bastard.”

Joseph's lips twitched and John shivered under his cold stare. The incensed man took a step towards John but was stopped when one of his comrades suddenly stepped in between Joseph and John, placing a hand on his boss' shoulder. “Hey Joseph, we better get going. We can't be found here, man. If the old lady comes back, or she hears a noise and calls the police...”

“Okay, okay,” Joseph interrupted, gesturing theatrically. “I get it, time’s up.” His gaze flickered to the prone Sherlock once more. “I got what I come for, didn't I?" He paused then, studying Sherlock. “Though, I've got just one more thing to do here before I'm done. Just wanna leave another reminder for my old chum. Don't want him to go forgetting me now, do I?”

With a smirk, the man pulled a knife out of his back pocket.

John yelled his outrage as Joseph crouched over Sherlock, stabbing the blade into the stricken man's side. Sherlock cried out, and tried to pull away but Joseph held on to him firmly. With a vicious smirk, Joseph plunged the knife into Sherlock once more.

Sherlock whimpered one word, which caused Joseph to shout out with laughter, and for John to swear in his fury and despair.

 _“Please.”_

“Good boy,” Joseph whispered. “Nice to hear you pleading, Holmes. At last.”

“Leave him alone,” John moaned. “Just fucking _stop!_ ”

Joseph eyed John. “Leave him alone? Stop? Why? _They_ didn't stop hurting my brother, did they? _They_ never showed my brother any mercy.” He tightened his hold on Sherlock's arm, causing him to moan. “You tell me why I shouldn't do the same for the man who sent him to his death?” 

John shook his head desperately. He couldn't respond. This whole situation was hopeless, and he knew it. When there was no reply from the other man, Joseph grinned. Gripping Sherlock's arm even more harshly, he cut into his victim's skin until his forearm was a bloody mess. Pulling back only to check his handy work carefully, Joseph then nodded his satisfaction. With a smile, he slipped the knife back into his jeans pocket, and then glared down at Sherlock.

He held Sherlock's arm out, grabbed the detective’s hair, and forced him to look down, so that the he could see Joseph's message to him.

“Look at that,” he spat, forcing Sherlock to look. Sherlock did so. There was no fight left in the abused man now. “Do you know what this is?”

Sherlock tried to pull away but he had no where to go. He moaned when he saw the bloody symbol branded into his skin.

“This is my mark,” Joseph hissed quietly. He spoke slowly and calmly but his tone was of pure evil, his words for Sherlock's ears alone. “Inside, this signifies that you belong to another inmate.” He tightened his grip. “This means you're my bitch now, Sherlock.” He grabbed his chin then and forced Sherlock to turn his bruised and bloodied face towards him. “ _Might just see you again sometime._ ” Another chuckle. "If you survive that is. You've lost a bit of blood, pal."

He released Sherlock then and, with a jerk of his head, he left him, crumpled on the floor at his feet. With a wave of his hand, he indicated for his friends to head out of the room.

John stared at the broken mess that had once been his best friend, despair coursing through him. Sherlock's eyes were closed now and he was no longer moving. John knew he needed to get to him immediately but he was still handcuffed to the chair. He stared at Joseph, rage pumping through him in waves, but he fought to control it. Losing his head now would not help Sherlock. 

John shut his eyes tightly. Just what could he say or do to ever make this better? Everything Sherlock had been put through that day was for John, to spare John the same treatment.

_This is all my fault.,_

It was the sound of their door opening that brought John quickly back to the present. The men were leaving. 

They were happy to take their leave with Sherlock lying there bleeding, unconscious, maybe even dying, on the floor.

John had to do something.

“Wait,” he spoke up, his voice slightly trembling. “I need to tend to Sherlock.”

Joseph chuckled. “Oh?” He gestured his total lack of concern. “I guess that's your problem then, Doctor!”

John grimaced. He had to stay calm. He was Sherlock's only hope. “No, please, you have to uncuff me. Let me help him.”

O'Donnell stared at John for a moment, and then laughed loudly. 

He gestured for his men to go first. “I'll catch you up,” he told them, his tone amused. “Just gotta finish cleaning up here first.”

The other men nodded, and then disappeared out of the door. Only O'Donnell remained.

The Irishman smirked at John.

“So, you want me to let you go, Doctor?”

“Yes,” John snarled back. This was wasting precious time. Sherlock needed him. Now. “Please.”

Another snicker. “And now why would I consider doing a thing like that?”

John pulled on the cuffs then, his face red from anger. “Because if you don't, Sherlock is going to die! You want another murder charge to add to the list?”

O'Donnell smiled. He glanced curiously down at Sherlock, and tutted. “Oh dear. He does look in a bad way, now you mention it.” He leaned down in front of John, so close he was almost nose to nose. “You'd better start screaming then, hadn't you, Doc? Someone might just hear you, if you're lucky, and come running to the rescue.”

John knew he was wasting his breath. What did O'Donnell care if Sherlock lived or died? If Sherlock Holmes perished at his hand, he would see it as a job well done.

Pride had long since abandoned John. He had nothing left to give, no other option, but to beg for his best friend's life.

“Please, O'Donnell. For _Christ's_ sake! _Please!_ I'll do anything! Just let me go to him!”

O'Donnell swore loudly, and struck John hard across the face, adding a cut lip to the doctor's existing injuries. “Don't you take the Lord's name in vain like that, Doctor! I won't stand for that. Didn't your mama teach you good manners?”

John wanted to kill him. He would see him die. He would.

Joseph stood then and regarded the small man. “Well, it's been great.” He said, joyfully. “Thanks for a fun time. Oh and make sure you thank Sherlock for me, will you?” He smirked. “If you get the chance, of course.”

He paused by the door, giving Sherlock one last lingering glance. “I actually hope you get some help for him, Doctor Watson, and that he pulls through. It'll be good for him, won't it? He'll get to spend all his time wondering when I'll be back for seconds.” He grinned. “Come to think of it, do you really think he _wants_ you to save him?”

John felt sick. He struggled desperately against his bonds. The calm exterior was gone now. He had to get free.

O'Donnell, enjoying his futile efforts, winked at him. “See you then! Give the Great Detective a kiss goodbye from me!”

And, with one last vicious chuckle, he slipped out of the door.

The doctor waited until he heard the door slam downstairs. He didn't make a sound until he knew for absolute certain that this was not yet another game. This time, they had really gone, and were not coming back.

A few moments passed before John began to fight against the cuffs once more, calling out continuously to Sherlock. His friend didn't respond.

“Sherlock!” John tried again, willing the other man to awaken. “Please, I need you to wake up!”

Still, there was no sign of life. John could see that Sherlock was losing blood fast from the stab wounds, and the other injuries he had suffered. John cried out in anger and pain as he tried to force his wrists through the cuffs, but it was no good. There was nothing he could do.

Nothing but watch as his friend suffered horrendously before his eyes.

Suffered because of him.

_All for him._

John had no idea how long he sat there, hopeless, listening to Sherlock moan and whimper and not being able to do a damned thing about it. Finally, at long last, some God somwhere must have answered his prayers. He listened intently and then a spark of hope lit up inside him. He could have sworn he heard the door opening and closing downstairs.

He felt his stomach knot.

Was that a voice? 

 

_Please, don't let it be them again. Please God._

“Hello?” There was no mistaking the woman's voice this time. It was as clear as day. “Anybody home? I'll leave the door open, I'm bringing in the shopping...”

John could have sobbed with relief.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he yelled, “Up here! Help!” When she didn't respond, he called out again, shouting as loud as he could. “Please! Help us!”

He heard mutterings from downstairs, and then the sound of footsteps coming up the steps. He held his breath, and then Mrs. Hudson poked her head around the door.

“Everything alright, dear?” She edged her way in, shopping bags in hand.

“Mrs. Hudson,” John began, “You have to keep calm...”

“I'm sorry I took so long, John.” She chattered, looking toward the kitchen, not at John. She didn't even acknowledge that he had spoken to her. That was her way after all. “The supermarket was just-”.

_“Mrs Hudson!”_

She broke off. She stared, wide eyed as she took in the sight of John handcuffed to the chair, looking at her in desperation, and then her eyes fell on the prone, beaten and bloodied body of Sherlock, lying exactly where he had fallen, a pool of blood having formed around him. Mrs. Hudson brought a shaky hand up to her mouth as her eyes met John's once again.

“My goodness,” was all she could manage. She was in complete shock.

“Mrs. Hudson,” John was able to repeat, as together as he could muster, though he was on the cusp of total despair. He didn't want to panic the older woman any further. She was his, and more importantly Sherlock's, only help. “Please, I need your help.”

“Y-yes,” she stammered, “Of course, dear.” She rushed to his side, and began to pull at the handcuffs.

Of course, she got nowhere.

“Oh my dear,” she whispered. “The key, John? Where is the key?”

“They took it with them,” John replied, swallowing. “Mrs. Hudson, leave me. Please, we have to help Sherlock. Call an ambulance. Hurry!”

She didn't move immediately, she was once again staring at Sherlock, her hand moving to cover her mouth.

John knew now was not the time to be gentle.

“Mrs. Hudson!” He all but exploded at her. “Call an ambulance now! If you don't, he could die!”

That did it. Shaking her out of her trance, Mrs. Hudson nodded, apologising profusely, and rushed towards their front door, already pulling out her mobile phone. 

She jumped when she reached the exit.

Mycroft was standing in her way, his face like thunder.

She had to fight back tears when she met his gaze.

“I'm so sorry,” she told him, clearly no longer able to keep a handle on the situation. “The supermarket was just so busy...” She was sobbing as she stepped outside of the room, holding her phone up to her ear with a trembling hand.

Mycroft met John's eyes.

John could hardly look at him.

The elder Holmes walked, not striding as he usually did, into the room, his eyes glued to Sherlock. He stopped beside his brother, and then bent down, putting two fingers to the unconscious man's neck. 

A look of relief flashed across Mycroft's face.

“He's alive,” he announced, before adding; “But he's cold.” He then quickly unbuttoned his large coat and gently placed it over Sherlock.

He then stood up straight again, and looked back over at John.

“What happened here?” 

His tone was controlled but his eyes were flaming. John shuddered to look at them.

“A gang,” was all John could say. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the sounds of Sherlock's cries and O'Donnell's laughter that still echoed in his head.

Mycroft pursed his lips together. With another concerned glance at Sherlock, he walked quickly to John, pulled out a handful of keys, and began to try them in the lock to John's handcuffs. Finally, he found the right one and John was released.

“Who, John?” Mycroft urged, watching as John rubbed his wrists, trying to restore the feeling to them. And then, when John didn't reply, Mycroft clasped his shoulder. The grip was not gentle. “Tell me.”

“Not now.” John snapped. And then, he was pushing Mycroft out of the way and rushing to Sherlock's side. He immediately moved to stop the bleeding, taking of his jumper to hold against the deeper, more concerning, wound. He then tried to place his arms around the taller man, pulling Sherlock into his embrace, aiming to keep the trembling man warm. John heard Sherlock let out a low moan, and he looked at his friend, whispering what he hoped were comforting words into his ear. And, sure enough, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he gazed up at John.

John did his best to smile down at him, but he could only imagine it was more of a grimace. He gripped Sherlock's hand as he told him: “You're okay, Sherlock. You're going to be fine. I'm right here.” 

Sherlock coughed. 

“Don't speak for now,” John urged him. “Just lie still. The ambulance is coming.”

“John,” Sherlock moaned, whispering so softly that John had to lean right into him to hear him. “Did they hurt you?”

John could have broken down as the grief gripped him. He shook his head no, shushed Sherlock softly, and stroked his hair until he grew peaceful once more. John then glanced back up at Mycroft and realised, almost to his surprise, that Mycroft was very moved by the situation and clearly wanted to go to his wounded brother. John jerked his head and moved back slightly, showing Mycroft he was more than welcome to join him and Sherlock if he wanted to. 

Mycroft hesitated. Then, he shook his head slightly, smiled grimly, and quickly placed his hands behind his back.

_No time for sentiment._

John sighed. Why couldn't Mycroft understand that, right at that moment, Sherlock needed his support, not his power?

Instead, Mycroft turned his attention, as John had expected, back to the business of revenge. 

“Who?” he asked again, this time more firmly.

“O'Donnell.” John replied. “He raped him, Mycroft. And then, he stabbed him.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, remembering. “Joseph O'Donnell,” he repeated, more to himself. “Irish convict, recently released. Sherlock and Inspector Lestrade's first case.”

John nodded. He was looking at Sherlock again, noting the bruises beginning to form on his best friend’s face. And he realised, there was a question he could no longer put off asking.

“Where were you?” John demanded, his voice pained. “You could have stopped this, Mycroft. Why weren't you watching us?”

Mycroft glanced away for a second, before answering. “My apologies, Doctor Watson. Two of my men were outside, as usual,” Mycroft replied, unemotionally. “They are both dead. Throats slit. Murdered. That is how I was aware that there was a problem here. They didn't report in on the hour as I had ordered them to.” A grim smile. “They were good men. They followed orders.”

A cold dread filled John. _More pointless violence._

“What will you do?” John inquired.

Mycroft blinked.

“I will find Mr. O'Donnell, John,” he responded, pleasantly. He placed his hands back at his sides and John could see that they were balled into fists. “And I will ask him why he raped my little brother. And then, I will kill him.”

There was no threat to Mycroft's tone. He was simply stating a fact. 

And, as he knelt there, gently rocking the sleeping Sherlock in his arms, John found that he couldn't give a damn. In fact, he wanted to be there.

And watch O'Donnell getting _exactly_ what the evil monster deserved.


	5. Chapter 5

John awoke abruptly and on edge, as he had done for the past couple of months. That particular morning was no different. He groped around for the alarm clock on his bedside table, hitting the “snooze” button, and then letting out a weary sigh. Six am already. He gazed up at the ceiling, wondering how many hours rest he'd managed during the night. Three or four maybe, if he was lucky. It was the norm for him these days, surviving on only a few hours sleep. The nightmares had come again, of course. Every time he closed his eyes, he was always back there, back in their front room, looking on helplessly as his best friend was...

John frowned. Going over this again was not helping anybody. Sherlock definitely wouldn't thank him. And maybe that was why he revisited that horrendous day every night in his dreams. He couldn't talk about it, couldn't face up to it. Not to Sherlock, who had decided it would be best to never mention that day, or O'Donnell, ever again. He couldn't mention it to Mrs Hudson, who became distraught at any reminder of that afternoon. Lestrade knew Sherlock had been attacked, but not the severity of it. He had even visited Sherlock in the hospital. John had been surprised he had been told, as Mycroft had gone to a lot of trouble to cover up what had happened. John supposed Lestrade had cared enough to do some digging. He had been the only one.

It was as though there was no one to talk to. His therapist was unable to help him; how could she possibly understand how he felt? She tried to say all the right things, obviously. But that was her job. Her words of wisdom was not what John needed right then. He needed someone who understood. He needed someone who would make all the pain, and the horrors go away. And the only person, apart from Sherlock, who could make that happen for him was Mycroft. 

His thoughts turned once more to Sherlock, and the shadow of his former self that he had become. After being released from hospital, for the first few weeks, John had hardly seen Sherlock. The man had retreated into himself, hardly emerging from his room let alone leaving the house. The confident, strong man he had once been had been replaced by a nervous and jumpy version and John was at a loss as to how he could help him. Sherlock needed more than John could offer but he refused to see anyone else. He was distrustful of everyone except for John, and absolutely point blank refused to see or even speak to Mycroft. All Sherlock ever replied to John when he tried to convince him to contact his brother was with the same automatic response:

“He wasn't there when I needed him, John. It's too late now.”

And that was all he could get out of Sherlock. All John wanted to do was to support his friend, but Sherlock didn't want to be helped. He wanted to be left alone. Although John knew Sherlock believed he could get through this on his own, it wouldn't be that easy. He was a rape victim now. For him to face what that bastard had done to him, Sherlock needed professional care. John, despite his best efforts, was not able to provide what Sherlock needed. But Sherlock didn't see it like that. “You're my doctor, John. Why do I need another?” Sherlock had also become very nervous, but tried his best not to show it. Even though Sherlock now ventured out of his room more, and seemed more comfortable in John's company, there was never any real conversation between them. Sherlock would keep his eyes trained on his laptop screen, apparently “researching.” John had no idea what he was working on, he hadn't even attempted to find a case since “that day.” 

Due to Sherlock's refusal to let him assist, Mycroft stayed in contact with John via text message. He was always in touch, demanding constant updates on how Sherlock's recovery was progressing. In return, he did pass on some information about how the search for the gang was going. Not that Mycroft ever gave much away, for John's “own good,” supposedly. John did have confidence in Mycroft though. He remembered the look of barely contained fury on the man's face back in the flat that day, and knew that not only would Mycroft find O'Donnell, but he would also make sure he paid in full for what he had done to Sherlock. John reminded Mycroft constantly that when he did find the bastard, no matter what the punishment was that Mycroft decided upon, John wanted to be there when it happened. He had drilled that into Mycroft enough times. 

John picked his watch up from his bedside table and glanced at it. He sighed. It was time for him to get ready for work. In fact, he was running late. No time for a shower now. 

He dressed quickly, and picked up his suitcase on the way to the door. As he crossed the living room, making for the stairs, he paused to call out for Sherlock. There was no reply, so he tried again. He knew Sherlock would be awake. He was always awake. Why would he want to sleep? Not with the dreams he suffered. No one would.

“Sherlock?” John called out, the impatience clear in his tone

It turned out three times was the charm.

At last, Sherlock replied to him, his voice somewhat muffled by his closed bedroom door. “ _Yes, John?”_

“I'm just leaving for work,” John called back, trying to keep his voice steady. “Do you want me to bring you anything?”

“ _I'm fine._ ”

John frowned. This was the usual cold response he got from Sherlock. 

He took a deep breath.

“How about dinner? Will you be hungry?”

“ _I suppose so._ ”

“How about Pizza?”

“ _Whatever you think is best, John._ ”

And then the conversation was over.

Swallowing hard, John was suddenly reminded of another conversation the two men had had just before _that night_ had happened. His heart hurt. He didn't know what to do for the best. All he wanted was his best friend back. All he wanted was to help him, in whatever way he could.

“See you later, Sherlock,” John whispered. He didn't expect a reply.

He picked up his jacket, switched off the living room light, and made for the stairs.

XXX

John sat back with a sigh. Lunch time, at last. It had been a busy morning. John had arrived seven minutes late, apologising to his long suffering receptionist, who had given him a lazy smile and informed him his first appointment was due in five minutes. Mrs Eleanor McIntosh, seventy-one, with a nasty, infected boil. John had let out a weary sigh, thanked her and had gone into his office, preparing himself for the stampede. He wasn't disappointed.

One after another, they came through his door. The sick and infected, needing his help and advice. Some were easy; give them a sympathetic smile and ear, followed by optimistic news and then write out a quick prescription slip and they went off on their way. A couple had had more serious problems and it felt like they took all their troubles out him. He was their GP though, that was what he was there for. And, after all, spending ten minutes listening to Mr Marshall's relationship problems (since when had he been an agony Aunt?) was a lot preferable then trying to get through to Sherlock right then. And that was how it always went for John. No matter what he faced at work, his thoughts always inevitably turned to Sherlock and his inability to help his best friend. He took another bite out of his Chicken sandwich he'd brought on the way to work, and closed his eyes, tiredness hitting him once again.

He really needed to have a good night's sleep. Couldn't fall asleep on the job again. This was his practise now, no Sarah to bail him out. 

He had to get it together. Only then, would he be any use to Sherlock.

The sound of the intercom brought him sharply out of his musings. He frowned, glancing at his clock. He'd only been on lunch for twenty minutes, surely he didn't have an appointment booked in?

He pressed the button. “What's up, Liz?” He asked.

“There's someone here to see you, Doctor Watson.”

John scowled. Couldn't he have an hour's break?

“I'm at lunch, Liz.” He said, with annoyance. “Is it urgent?”

There was a pause, before she spoke again. “He says he's an old friend, doctor. He says he knows you and Sherlock, that you go way back. He wants to know if Sherlock is okay now he's out of hospital.” Another pause. “I didn't know Sherlock was ill...”

John's discomfort had grown as she had spoken. No one knew Sherlock had been ill. The whole thing had been covered up by Mycroft. They only people who knew were Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, a trusted group of doctors, and John himself. With an ever growing sense of dread, John scrapped back his chair, stood and walked around his table. He pushed open his door, saw Liz, who smiled at him with some confusion, and then his eyes met the man sitting, waiting patiently for him, grinning broadly.

Joseph O'Donnell.

The man clapped his hands together, and quickly jumped to his feet. “Doctor! Thanks for seeing me. Sorry to drop in all unannounced like this. How's tricks?”

John stared at him, breathing hard, his hand still grasping his door handle. He couldn't believe the scum was sitting in his work place. The last time he'd seen him, he'd had to sit and watch him brutally assault somebody he loved.

John blinked hard. He couldn't picture that now. He had to stay calm, and get through this. Somehow. 

Fighting to stay calm, he turned hurriedly to his receptionist, who was now watching him closely, intrigued. “Liz, I forgot to go to the bank this morning. Can you pay a cheque in for me please?”

Liz frowned. “Of course, doctor. If you like.” She glanced at both men, and obviously felt uncomfortable. “Do you want me to go right now?”

John nodded. “Yes please.” He handed her the cheque. “Thanks.”

She took it, and then headed for the door without a word, closing it quietly behind her.

Now, O'Donnell and John were alone.

“You bastard,” John snarled, trying to reach his mobile phone, which he'd earlier slipped into his pocket. “You've got the nerve to walk in here, after what you've done?”

O'Donnell raised an eyebrow.

“You're not trying to keep my attention off of the fact that you are taking your mobile out of your jeans pocket, are you, John?”

John stopped moving, but didn't say anything. He moved his left hand back into view, and swallowed hard.

“That's better, now!” With a smirk, O'Donnell threw down the magazine he'd been holding, and then kicked the small table away from him, knocking it over. He then chuckled, that same snicker that made John's blood run cold.

“Sorry about that,” he drawled. “I'm sure you can have “Liz” there pick 'em up for you. Pretty little thing, isn't she?” He folded his arms over his chest and titled his head. “Shall we go into your office, doctor? Might be more comfortable, don't you think?”

John came to his senses, giving himself a shake. He balled his hands into fists. 

“What are you doing here?”

O'Donnell gave him a wounded look. “That's not very nice, is it?” He waved toward John's office once more. “I'm not here to cause any trouble, John. All I want to do is talk.”

“And what if I call very loudly for help?” John hissed. “There are people watching this surgery-”

“Mycroft's people, you mean?” O'Donnell smiled, showing teeth. “They won't be interrupting us. I'm pretty good at sneaking into places, doc.” He leaned closer, and John recoiled away from him, pressing his back against the wall. “And you won't be calling out, or sending out some kind of signal at all, will you?” He very carefully pulled a knife out of his pocket, and toyed with it. John couldn't take his eyes off of the sharp blade. O'Donnell met his gaze again, and beamed. “I'd have plenty of time to slash your throat with this little pretty, John, and be out of here long before they even realise there's a problem.”

John's breathing hitched, and he couldn't help but shiver. O'Donnell saw, and smirked yet again.

“I don't want to hurt you, doc. Like I said, all I want to do is talk to you. So why don't you go and sit in your big important doctor's chair and we'll have a nice chat, yeah?”

John wanted to lunge at him. O'Donnell obviously read the intent in John's eyes, as he pressed the top of the blade against his own finger, drawing blood. He then gave John a knowing frown.

“You don't want to be doing something stupid, John. There's no need for this to get nasty.”

“Bit late for that,” John snarled.

Joseph laughed. “Fair enough. But we can be civilised people now can't we?”

The Irishman didn't wait for a reply this time. He strode past John, into his office, and collapsed down into the patient's seat, waiting for John to sit opposite him. 

John followed him in and closed the door behind him tentatively. He looked at the other man with pure hatred as he slowly sat down.

He was certain, more certain than ever, that he would never hate another human being as he much as hated Joseph O'Donnell. 

O'Donnell was sat back in his chair, his body language showing how confident and nonchalant he was. He acted like he owned the place. Owned John. He smiled at him, and leaned closer. “So,” O'Donnell said, pleasantly. “How is Sherlock doing?”

John fought to control himself. There was no way he was going to talk about Sherlock to his rapist. Instead, he placed his hands together on the desk in front of him, and asked, quite calmly. “What do you want?”

“No small talk?” O'Donnell asked, with a shrug. “Fair enough then.” He leaned closer. “It's come to my attention, from a third party, that you've been looking for me.” He smirked. “You and Sherlock's big brother. I thought I'd make it easy for you.” He gestured theatrically. “Here I am.” 

John tried to keep his cool. “When Mycroft catches up with you-”

“The Holmes boys don't scare me, doctor.” O'Donnell told him. He picked up a pen from John's table, and played with it. “Tell me though, does the name “Moriarty” scare you, by chance?”

John froze. “What do you know of Moriarty?” He hissed.

Another cold smile greeted his question. “I know all I need to know,” he shot back. “And that's enough for me.” He dropped the pen, and John jumped at the noise. “I think you should ask Mycroft to back off, otherwise he might cause himself, and lots of other people, an awful lot of trouble.”

John glared. “Tell him yourself.”

Joseph shook his head. “Nah, I think it would be better coming from you.”

He stood up then, pushing his chair back. “I guess I should be off.” He held his hand out to John, and shrugged when the other man didn't take it. “You tell Sherlock something from me. Tell him I'll see him real soon.”

John felt sick. He didn't trust himself to reply.

O'Donnell sauntered to the door, and gave John a quick salute.

“See you, doc.”

And with that, the man swaggered out, leaving a very pale John Watson to stare after him. Coming to his senses, John grabbed for his phone, and quickly made a call.

“I know why you are calling, John.”

John gritted his teeth. “You know who was just here?”

“I do indeed. You are being watched, John.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me how am ex-convict psychopathic rapist just walked in here with a _knife?_ ”

Mycroft didn't respond for a moment. “I apologise that you had to deal with that, doctor, but it was a very clever bluff. He'd have never used that knife on you. He doesn't want you dead, John. You're too valuable.”

John blinked. “Valuable? To who?”

Mycroft coughed. “To my brother.”

John's hand tightened on the side of his desk. “Is he going to go after Sherlock again?”

“Perhaps that is his plan.” Mycroft said softly. “But he will not get the chance. We now know our friend is very over confident, and this will be his downfall. Everyone has a weakness. Our arrogant Mister O'Donnell just made a huge mistake. I'll see that he pays for it. Leave it to me.”

“Whatever you do, Mycroft, I want to be part of it. You promised me that.”

“As you wish, doctor.” Mycroft replied, simply. “Oh and John? Don't tell Sherlock any of this. It will be a lot easier on him, and us all, if we keep this from him. Once the animal has been brought to justice, he will thank us for our discretion. I will contact you again soon, Doctor Watson.”

And with that, Mycroft cancelled the call. John stared at his phone for a few seconds trying to digest everything that had happened.

It was a few moments later that John realised that he was still shaking.

XXX

It was just after seven when John finally arrived home, armed with pizza. He threw his keys and the Pizza box onto the table, pushing all of Sherlock's mess out of the way. He took his jacket off then, draping it over the back of his chair. 

Steeling himself, he called out: “Sherlock, I've got pizza.”

“I'm not hungry, John.”

“You don't have to eat it, Sherlock. Just try and be sociable for a change.”

“I'm busy.” 

John actually chuckled under his breath, despite himself. He wasn't doing this again, not that night. With a frown, he walked to Sherlock's room, and rapped on his door, so hard he made his knuckles hurt.

“Leave me alone!”

John put his hands on his hips and glared. “Sherlock, you can't keep hiding away from me.”

“I'm not.”

“Like hell.”

Sherlock went quiet. John sighed. “Please, Sherlock. Open the door. I've hardly seen you for days.”

“You live with me, John.”

“You know what I mean, Sherlock! Come out here and talk to me!”

Sherlock threw open the door, glaring daggers at John. 

“What do you want?”

“Hi Sherlock,” John retorted, putting the plates down beside the pizza box. “How you doing? Good day? Constructive?”

Sherlock frowned, but did move into the living room, allowing his bedroom door to close behind him. He looked a complete mess, his hair dishevelled, and he was still in dressing gown.

John watched him. “What have you been doing?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “Working.” He sat down opposite John. “You?”

“Yeah, the same.” John replied, and then coughed. “It's nearly nine, Sherlock. You need to eat something.”

“Maybe later.”

“No, now!”

Sherlock frowned, but did as he was told, and took the plate John offered to him, but not before giving him a glare. 

They sat together silently. Sherlock didn't touch his pizza, whereas John merely nibbled on one slice of his. 

Finally Sherlock spoke up. “How was your day, John?”

John flinched. He bit his lip before replying. “It was fine. Busy,” he swallowed, starting to sweat unhelpfully. “Really busy. Lots of bugs going around at the moment-”

“Did you see anyone interesting?” Sherlock cut across him.

John had no idea what to say. He stared at Sherlock.

_'Did he know? How the hell could he be? He never leaves the flat...'_

After a moment to compose himself, John answered. “No one you'd be interested in, Sherlock, to be honest.” He took another bite out of his pizza. “What about you, did you do anything-”

Sherlock didn't want to talk about his day. 

“Are you still texting Mycroft?” He snapped. His eyes bored into John's.

John leaned back, and rubbed at his forehead. “I hear from him sometimes.” 

Sherlock nodded. 

There was a pause before he spoke again. However, John knew what was coming.

He wasn't wrong.

“Is he still looking for O'Donnell?”

John put down his slice of pizza. He couldn't look at Sherlock. He thought back to O'Donnell's impromptu visit. He wanted nothing more than to tell Sherlock everything that had happened but Mycroft's words of warning made him pause. 

Finally, with a small smile to his best friend, he simply replied with “yes.”

Sherlock instantly went on the attack. 

“I asked you to keep me updated,” he threw at him, his anger already evident. “Mycroft is doing everything he can to keep me in the dark. I needed you to be different. I asked for one thing, John. Why didn't you tell me?” His gaze bored into John's. “Is there something you're not telling me?”

John fought to control his own temper.

“Mycroft asked me to keep it quiet until we-”

“So?!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Since when do you obey Mycroft? You're _my_ friend! Not his! You're supposed to care about _me!_ ”

John stopped. “I do care,” he replied carefully. “Shit, Sherlock, you have no idea.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Why would you side with Mycroft over me? After everything I've done for you?”

“You don't understand anything, do you?” John retorted, close to tears. “This isn't about Mycroft. This is about what's been going on between us! I don't even know what you want from me anymore,” John covered his face with his hands. “Jesus, Sherlock, are we even still _friends_? Most of the time, you can't even bring yourself to _look_ at me and both of us know why.”

There was an uncomfortable silence between them.

“How can you say that?” Sherlock said quietly. “Why would you even _think_ it?”

“Because it's true! I can't stand it when you shut me out!” John spat to him. “You won't talk about what he did to you, it's like you don't trust me, and that's been killing me!” He was imploring him now. “I've been through hell too, Sherlock!” John stood perfectly still, trembling slightly. “I was there that day too...”

A dark look spread across Sherlock's face. It caused John to shiver just by looking at him.

“I'm sorry that it's been _so_ hard for you, John.” Sherlock told him, softly. His tone was laced with sarcasm. “It must have been so tough, everything you've been through. Having to watch the attack like that. I've been very selfish haven't I? Acting like it was all about me!”

“I didn't mean it like that, and you know it.”

“Is there anything else you want to say?” Sherlock hissed. “Anything else you want to get off of your chest? Come on, John! I'm listening!” He gestured angrily. “Isn't this what you wanted?”

“Sherlock,” John warned. “That's enough-”

“It wasn't even me they came here for, was it?” Sherlock snapped, leaning closer. “You should have been the one he raped! Not me!” His eyes were blazing. “Then it really would be all about you, wouldn't it? Just like you obviously want it to be!”

That was the last straw. John couldn't hear another word. He got up from his chair, making his way to the door, and pulling it open. He glanced back. “You finish the pizza, Sherlock.” He muttered. “I've lost my appetite.”

He then grabbed his jacket, and walked through the door, taking off down the stairs, two at a time. He paused at the door, looking back upstairs, and saw that Sherlock was stood at the top, peering down after him. 

“I'm going for a walk,” John called up to him. “I need to clear my head.”

Sherlock frowned, and then threw him a disinterested look. “Don't let me stop you.”

He then disappeared back into their flat, and closed the door, now shutting John out in every possible way.

John balled his hands into fists. “Fine.”

And with that, John marched out, allowing the door to slam behind him. He made his way quickly across the road. By the time he had reached the pavement opposite, the red haze had begun to clear, and he was already regretting his stupid loss of control. He looked back up at the flat window, and let out a weary sigh. He knew he shouldn't have let Sherlock get to him, Sherlock was still recovering, trying to get his head around what had happened to him. The majority of people would never be able to come back from such a horrific ordeal. It said a lot about Sherlock that he even had a chance to get past it. But one thing was only too clear, if Sherlock was to fight back, then he would need John's help.

John rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, still hesitating. He should go back in there, he should be there for Sherlock, whether Sherlock wanted him there or not. Especially after O'Donnell's visit to him today. John didn't want to leave Sherlock alone. But it wasn't as simple as that. John needed to figure out what had happened for himself, he needed to get over how guilty he felt.

He needed to stop blaming himself before he could truly help Sherlock... 

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by his phone, notifying him that he had received a text. He reached for his phone at once, assuming the new text was from Sherlock. He pressed the button, opened the text, and read it. 

His blood promptly turned to ice in his veins.

The text was from Mycroft, not Sherlock. And there were only two words, but they meant everything to John:

_“Got him.”_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, well, I'm back! It's been a long time! Thank you all so much to everyone who has left a comment and encouraged me to continue while I was away. You have no idea how much they were appreciated.
> 
> Safe to say, I got the itch to write again and this is the story I wanted to finish first. This is the first thing I've written for 2 years so I hope it's okay. Please let me know in the comments - I'd really appreciate it.
> 
> Unbeta-ed so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Enjoy.

John was exhilarated as he ran back down Bakers Street, heading to the flat. As soon as he got through the door, he was calling for Sherlock, all the anger he had felt a few minutes ago gone. It's over! _It's actually over!_ He dashed up the stairs, still calling his friend's name and checking each room, eventually coming to the conclusion that Sherlock wasn't there. He paused for breath, surprised that Sherlock had left in the time he had been away. Where had he gone? John had literally been gone for only a few minutes! Sherlock hadn't left the flat in so long, why has he chosen to go out _now?_

A feeling of unease gripped him, and John took out his phone and quickly called Sherlock's number. He waited as the other man's phone rang but there was no answer. With an angry tut, he cancelled the call. 

_Where the hell are you, Sherlock?_

After a moment, John took up his phone again and this time called Mycroft. Of course. Mycroft would know where Sherlock was, he hadn't taken his eyes off of Sherlock since the attack. Of course he'll know...

John waited three rings before Mycroft answered. “Yes, my dear Doctor Watson?”

“Mycroft, Sherlock isn't at the flat. I went home to tell him the news about O'Donnell and the flat was empty. Mrs Hudson is away this week visiting friends, so he was on his own. I don't know where he is!”

“Call him then, John.”

John gritted his teeth. “I tried to call him, Mycroft! He didn't answer!”

Mycroft couldn't hide the concern in his voice when he replied, though he did his best to try.

“Don't worry, John. He'll be fine. He's probably out there looking for you. Forget his mobile, no doubt..”

John swallowed hard.

“But he never forgets his phone, Mycroft...”

Again, Mycroft spoke over him. “Please listen to me, there is nothing to fear, John. Why don't you come and join us here? Maybe Sherlock will contact one of us on your journey? We could do with a doctor here. I'll send a car to pick you up...”

“But, Mycroft, you said you have O'Donnell so its all over, right?”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Mycroft?”

“Well, it's not exactly over, John. Not yet. We have O'Donnell trapped but it's not quite as simply as I might have suggested. Come to the warehouse and I'll explain everything. Car should be with you now.”

And then: he cancelled the call. 

John shook his head, not liking any of this one bit. What was this suddenly about a warehouse? So O'Donnell was still free? How can Mycroft have not ensured this was done? And where the hell was Sherlock?

He looked around at the sound of a car pulling up close by, on the opposite side of the road, and frowned. That was quick. So someone had been watching their flat... so why hadn't they noticed Sherlock leave?

John crossed the road the where the driver was waiting. As he walked, he tried Sherlock's number again. 

_Just in case._

xxx

Mycroft was pacing up and down the industrial estate in Guildford, in the section Lestrade and his team had cordoned off, at the front of the warehouse. They had surrounded the entire building but other than that, and plenty of talk, nothing else had occurred. Mycroft had listened as Lestrade had attempted to negotiate with that Irish scum bag, the slime that had dared to touch his little brother. The man had agreed to release two of the hostages if the police did their part and backed off, which Lestrade had irritatingly agreed to. And now, they were just waiting. Mycroft wasn't allowed to take over, that had been made very clear. He wasn't even allowed to bring the army in! If he had, this whole sorry affair would have been over in a few very explosive moments. But as it was, this was pure frustration for Mycroft. He just wanted it over. As he watched Lestrade directing new reinforcements to surround the warehouse _again_ , and where to stand, for what felt like the hundredth time, his frustration boiled over. 

He marched over to Lestrade, who was standing with Anderson, discussing a map of the warehouse and deciding their next move.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft snapped, not very politely. “There doesn't seem to be any action happening. The criminals are in THERE, as my people found out for you. Why are you sitting, waiting? What, pray, are you waiting for exactly?” A pause. “Christmas, perhaps?”

Lestrade frowned but didn't bite. He knew Mycroft was fighting his emotions and he did understand, even if the man didn't know how to show them properly.

“As you know, Mr Holmes, they have hostages in there. We have to be delicate about this.”

Mycroft glared back at him. “Do I have to remind you what that creature did to my brother?”

The inspector pursed his lips together. “I'm well aware, Mycroft. Sherlock is my friend, remember? You and John aren't the only two people on Earth who care about him. But I'm not risking six innocent lives so you can get your revenge, understood?”

Mycroft stepped closely up to Lestrade, and lifted his head. “You could be replaced, Detective Inspector. Very easily.”

There was a very tense silence between them before Lestrade stepped up to meet him, and hissed: “Just you _try_ it.” 

They stared at each other, both refusing to back down.

Thankfully, their attentions were drawn elsewhere when a black Mercedes pulled up alongside them and John got out quickly and rushed over, completely unaware of the tension still in the air. “What have I missed?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Absolutely nothing.” He snapped.

Lestrade ignored him.

“Two of the hostages were just released.” Lestrade updated John, moving away from Mycroft, indicating to his team that the latest newcomer had been expected. “There's four more still in there though. We need to get them out.” 

Mycroft moved forward to join them. “John, have you heard from Sherlock?” 

John frowned. “No, haven't you?

Mycroft shook his head, resisting the desire to point out the obvious.

John bristled. “I was expecting you to have someone on him at ALL time! You always do. Especially since what happened to him... Why did that change?”

Mycroft had the good graces to look uncomfortable. “It appears, I'm sorry to say, that he gave my men what is commonly known as 'the slip'..” 

John took a step toward him, seeing red instantly. “They _lost_ him? Who are these people, Mycroft? Amateurs?” 

Mycroft hesitated, his lips twitching. “Well, they are employed by the British government, John. I'm sure they have been called worse...” 

John balled his hands into fists. “You think this is _funny_? “ He hissed. “Your brother was raped two weeks ago and now you've LOST him?” 

They were interrupted by the noise of Lestrade's mobile phone ringing. Lestrade quickly indicated to his officers to listen in on the call, Anderson moving the closest and giving his superior the thumbs up, telling him they were ready. Lestrade answered the call. 

“Lestrade here.”

“ _Hullo there, Detective Inspector!”_ O'Donnell's harsh Irish accent could be heard over the loud speaker, and John instantly cringed. He hated the sound of that voice. _“Well, so? I did something for you, didn't I? I let those two morons go.”_

Lestrade nodded. “Yes, you did. Thank you for that, Joseph. But now we need to talk about the other hostages and organising their release too..”

O'Donnell laughed. “ _Oh no, no! That's not how it works, Mr Lestrade! I give you something, you give me something. That's how this here thing is going to work...”_

Lestrade frowned at Mycroft. “Okay then, O'Donnell. What is it you want?”

A pause. And then: _“I want an appointment with my doctor. Send John Watson in here to join us. Make sure he's alone, and unarmed. Then I'll let the hostages go free, all of them.”_

Lestrade took a deep breath. “I'm not sending a civilian in there alone, O'Donnell. That's not going to happen..”

O'Donnell laughed. “ _Whatever else he may be, we both know that the wry doctor is no civilian. You be a good pig and send him in here, now, or I'll shoot each of these bastards here in the head, one by one. And you can explain to their families why they had to die. Then I'll blow myself up before you can take me, so it will all be for nothing, you follow me? So, detective, what's it goin' to be? One man, or four? What matters more?”_

And at that, the call was cut off.

There was a damning silence in the area as they all looked as one toward John, waiting for his reaction. Not one person spoke. 

John shrugged his shoulders, finally letting out a breath he didn't even know he was holding in. With an even longer sigh, he muttered, “Well, I don't have any choice, do I?”

Mycroft held up his hand. “John, I must sincerely advise against you...”

“I didn't ask you for advice, Mycroft.”

Lestrade moved in front of John quickly, blocking his way.

“I'm not letting you go in there, Doctor Watson. He'll kill you.” 

“Well, it's not your decision either, is it, Greg?” 

Mycroft joined in. “John, I must agree with the inspector on this one occasion...There are many other means at our disposal of dealing with this...” 

John gestured furiously. “And what happens to the hostages in your plan, Mycroft? They don't walk out of there alive, do they?” He closed his eyes. “Is that okay with you, because its not me, To just let those people in there die? I can't, I _won't_ do it.” 

Lestrade cut in when he saw Mycroft wasn't going to respond immediately. “ _Of course it's not okay_ ,” he snapped, throwing Mycroft a cold look. “We're all on the same page as you there. But we need to do this the _right_ way, John. The _sensible_ way. This is why we have procedures to follow to make sure these things don't end badly. We can get those people away AND keep you safe. Christ, you know what he'll do to you if you give him the chance!”

John shrugged. “Yeah I do; thanks, Lestrade! I got a front row seat last time, remember? I know what he's capable of. _Damn it_! If Sherlock was here, he'd go in there and you know it..” 

“We don't even _know_ where Sherlock _is_!” Lestrade exclaimed. “We can't exactly ask him his opinion, can we? But I bet he wouldn't be too happy to see you going flying in there with no plan, trying to be a hero!

“John.” Mycroft cut in softly, noting that John was about to lose it big time. “It's for Sherlock's sake I'm telling you not to go. I don't think it's a good idea to take such a risk...You are not thinking clearly.”

John waved a hand. “Okay, that's enough from both of you! I'm going. I'm not discussing this any more. I'm not letting those people die because of me and that's all there is to it.” He threw his revolver on the ground. “This happened because I was weak and didn't do something when I should have. _I could have stopped him!_ Not this time.” He then turned and walked away from them, heading for the front entrance to the opposing grey building before him.

Lestrade and Mycroft watched him go helplessly, having to allow John his wish to go on in alone, despite their inhibitions. It was clear they both felt the same way about John's decision, but what could they do? It was clear to both of them that John's resolution to put himself into harms way was about his own guilt. Nothing they could have said or done would have stopped him. 

Lestrade stuck his hands deep in his pockets, and shook his head at Mycroft as he watched John enter the warehouse, and disappear, closing the door behind him. 

“Why do we constantly give this bastard exactly what he wants?” He muttered. 

Mycroft didn't reply. 

***

John made his way slowly through the dark and damp warehouse, trying to swallow his fear as he walked. That dread within him escalated with every step he took. He could tell that the warehouse had been abandoned for decades, probably since it had been closed down in the seventies. The building was derelict and clearly should have been demolished a long time ago. The perfect hideout for O'Donnell and his gang, John reasoned. He knew there was no escape for any of them – no matter what O'Donnell had planned. Mycroft would never let him walk away from there, not after what he'd done. And that gave John comfort as he walked on, to his own uncertain destiny. 

He turned down another corridor, going even deeper in the darkness. He had to feel the walls either side of him to assist his way. He could see next to nothing in front of him, couldn't hear anything either, expect for the clanging noise of pipes close by. It made him feel even more nervous.

He finally could go no further and steeled himself before calling out: “Hello? Is anyone there?”

That hated Irish accent responded to him at once, and he sounded close:

_“Keep walking, John. We're all waiting for you.”_

John took a deep breath and made his way further down that dark corridor until he finally could see a light flickering in the distance. He felt a mixture of relief and dismay – relief that the anticipation was nearly done and dismay that whatever was facing him was so close. He swallowed hard, chewed on his lower lip, and headed straight for that light. He soon arrived at a door and, with a grimace, pushed the door open.

He was grabbed by his shirt as soon as the door was open and dragged inside. He found himself thrown against a wall and pinned there while he was searched for weapons or any wire or radio. When nothing as found, a voice said softly, “Nothing, boss,” and then the hands were gone, and he was released. He took a moment but once he'd turned back away from the wall, he was faced with five guns all pointing straight at his face. 

O'Donnell lowered his own gun and moved closer, a reptilian smile on his face.

“Hey John, thanks for comin'. Good to see yer.”

John glared back at him. “What is this about, O'Donnell? You know how many police are out there? You're not going to walk away from this. None of you are.”

O'Donnell raised an eyebrow. “Is that right?” He pushed back his trench coat and showed the bomb he was wired up to. He smiled knowingly. “You think I'm worried about any of the pigs out there? Even Mycroft Holmes? He's not pulling the strings around here.”

John smirked. “Mycroft is always pulling the strings. He could destroy this whole factory with one phone call. And he'd do it too, if he thought you'd get away. Nothing matters more than Sherlock. If you think me getting in here would make a difference, you are going to be so disappointed.”

“You're here to play your part, John.” 

John frowned. “Fine! You've got me. Why do you need anyone else? Let these other people go.”

“John,” O'Donnell chuckled. “They're only still here to convince YOU to come in. Job done. Don't need them now.” 

“So, you'll let them all go?” John whispered, feeling a spark of hope. 

“Sure...” And O'Donnell gestured to his men. 

They turned as one and opened fire, shooting each of the hostages in turn. All four of them crumpled to the ground, not even having a chance to cry out, dead before they hit the ground. John stared, horrified, not quite believing what O'Donnell had done right before his eyes. Two of his men hung back, checking the bodies to ensure they were all dead. One turned and vomited onto the ground, hanging his head and wiping his eyes. Another grunt gave the distressed man a cold look. “Pull yourself together. You're getting paid a nice wage for this.” 

The man shook his head. “I didn't sign up for this.” He muttered. “Not murder.” 

O'Donnell stepped forward without hesitation, and shot the man in the back of the head and he fell, just as the others had. The rest of the gang looked startled to see one of their own so ruthlessly executed but quickly recovered, showing no other reaction. 

John, meanwhile, shook his head in disgust. “You're sick.” 

The Irishman smiled. “Can't be doin' with cowards, doctor, and that man was a yellow-bellied piece of shit. Believe me, I did him a favour...” And he kicked out at the dead man's leg. “Forget him. We've got more important things to discuss, anyway..” 

John gritted his teeth as he glared at him. “What are you talking about?” 

“Your friends outside, Mr Lestrade, Mr Holmes, et al. They made things very easy for me. And I heard Mycroft Holmes was the smart one...” He gestured to one of his men, and he walked to the far wall and hit on the wall, only for a door to slide open, revealing a hidden exit, and beyond it, a small dark passage. The grunt bundled in a figure, their arms tied behind their back and a hood over their head, blocking their sight and keeping their identity a secret from John. He swallowed hard, that dread now at its greatest. 

“What is this...?” He whispered, not wanting to hear the answer. 

“Your boys falling for that old trick outside was the perfect game, and enabled us to get this fool inside, the reason this is all happening.” He crossed the small room, to where the figure, slightly trembling, was hunched against the wall. “It all worked like a dream, doctor. Now let's get this show on the road...” 

And he tore off the hood. 

John made forward but was grabbed and held back by one of the men behind him. 

Sherlock blinked his eyes furiously, trying to adjust. He shook his head to clear it, and whispered John's name, desperate for John to keep his calm. As he was roughly forced to his knees, his horror at seeing his rapist again was evident as he trembled as he stared at him, swallowing hard.

O'Donnell laughed loudly at John, who swore at him. He tried to get free with all his might, his only desire being to get to Sherlock. 

It was so nice of you to leave Sherlock alone like that, doctor.” O'Donnell was saying, running a hand through Sherlock's hair. It was all the terrified man could do not to freak out at that touch as O'Donnell continued to address John. “You gave my men just the chance they needed.” 

John flinched at his words, realising he should have gone with his instincts. Too late now. 

“Don't touch him, you fucking arsehole!” 

O'Donnell paused, and smiled cruelly.

“Language, doctor..” 

He left Sherlock's side, pulled up a chair in front of John and indicated for him to sit down. 

“It's time to finish it.”

TBC


End file.
